Killing Patton The Strange Death of World War II's Most Audacious General (39 page)

The Nuremberg courtroom

That prosecutor is none other than Wild Bill Donovan, the sixty-two-year-old major general, Medal of Honor winner, and chief of the OSS. The war may be over, but Donovan still has scores to settle. That is why he is here today. Many of his spies died at the hands of the Nazis, who also murdered countless innocent civilians as revenge for successful OSS operations. Donovan is relentlessly anti-Nazi, and began laying the groundwork for these trials as far back as October 1943, when he coaxed President Roosevelt into setting up a postwar apparatus for trying war criminals. It was two months later, in the spirit of Allied cooperation, that Donovan flew to Moscow and began forging a relationship between the OSS and the NKVD.

Hermann Goering with Hitler in Berlin

But things have gone horribly wrong for Donovan in recent months. He has been undone by sordid and unfounded rumors that he is having an affair with his daughter-in-law—a rumor that most displeased the prudish Harry Truman when it reached the Oval Office.
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In a separate incident, a fifty-nine-page report leveling charges of gross mismanagement and incompetence within the OSS was manufactured by Donovan’s rivals and also found its way to President Truman.

Now, even as the heat from the courtroom spotlights makes his pale, broad face flush a light crimson, Wild Bill is desperately clinging to what little authority he has left. A power struggle with chief Nuremberg prosecutor Robert Jackson has not ended in his favor, and the fiery Donovan has decided that he will soon leave the trials rather than be a subordinate.

Even worse, as of October 1, his agency is no more. President Truman has shut down the OSS.

But Donovan knows that the United States needs a global spy network. So even though he is not technically America’s top spy any longer, he still maintains a close relationship with the leaders of the Russian NKVD and with British spymaster William Stephenson.
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It was with British help that Donovan undertook what was known as Operation Jedburgh, in which teams of British, French, and American commandos parachuted into Nazi-occupied Europe and conducted the espionage that laid the groundwork for D-day. The men selected to be “Jedburghs” were trained in firearms, sabotage, and close-quarters fighting.

In early 1945, while staying at Claridge’s, his favorite London hotel, Donovan met with a Jedburgh soldier named Douglas Bazata. The thirty-four-year-old Bazata was a red-haired former U.S. Marine with a fondness for tweaking authority by calling colonels “sugar” rather than “sir.” He was also a top marksman and was once the unofficial heavyweight boxing champion of the Marine Corps.

As he sat down for lunch, Bazata was curious: “You have an additional mission for me? You can trust me totally. I am the servant of the United States, of the OSS and General Donovan.”

“Douglas, I do indeed have a problem,” Donovan admitted. They were at a corner table, where they could not be overheard. “It is the extreme disobedience of General George Patton, and of his very serious disregard of orders for the common cause.”

“Shall I kill him, sir?” Bazata was eager to please Donovan, but also cautious. He had met Patton before and liked the general.

“Yes, Douglas. You do exactly what you must. It is now totally your creation.”
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*   *   *

Weeks ago, Donovan sent his personal papers relating to the Nuremberg Trials back to his home in Washington. But it is not yet time for him to return from Europe. There is something else he must do.

Between the last week of November and the middle of December, when his plane finally touches down at LaGuardia Field in New York, Wild Bill Donovan will roam the continent. With no assignment or agency, he has no reason to report his whereabouts to anyone.

But one thing is clear as the morning of December 9 dawns cold and damp over central Germany: Wild Bill Donovan and Douglas Bazata are on a mission, and it may very well alter George Patton’s future.

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P
ATTON’S HEADQUARTERS

B
AD
N
AUHEIM,
G
ERMANY
¹

D
ECEMBER
9, 1945

6:00
A.M.

The man with twelve days to live has awakened.

His longtime orderly, African American sergeant William George Meeks, draws the bedroom curtains in George Patton’s mansion on the Höhenweg Road. Morning light floods the room as the general stirs and says good morning. The weariness that rimmed his blue eyes the last year of the war is gone. He still has the spot on his pale pink lips from smoking one too many cigars, but he has once again kicked the habit—at least temporarily. Patton has also lost weight through diet, exercise, and giving up tobacco, and looks more athletic than he has in years. He is a rejuvenated man, completely ready for whatever the future might bring.

The morning wake-up is a routine that Patton and Meeks have followed throughout the war, but now that routine is soon to end. George S. Patton is going home to America. Official army orders are directing him to return home, where he has arranged to take thirty days’ leave and celebrate Christmas with his family. After that, he plans to leave the military.

Meeks will return to America with Patton, soon to settle into civilian life in Georgia. Tomorrow morning, the two men will travel by car to Paris, then on to the coast of France, where they will board a U.S. Navy battleship for the five-day Atlantic crossing. Patton has been allowed one hundred and sixty-five pounds of luggage, which Meeks has already packed. Meeks has just finished laying out Patton’s clothes for his last day in Germany, but there is soon to be a change in wardrobe.

Sergeant Meeks informs Patton that last night’s dinner guest, the general’s close friend and commander of the Seventh Army Maj. Gen. Geoffrey Keyes, has been called back to his headquarters on urgent business.

Patton is disappointed. Keyes is one his few friends remaining in Europe, and was a stalwart armored commander on whom Patton depended greatly during the Sicilian campaign. Patton has nothing to do today, and was hoping a morning of conversation with Keyes would help allay the boredom and restlessness that has accompanied the end of the war.

Patton’s mansion is surrounded by a dense forest. Rattling around all day with nothing to do holds no appeal for him. So before going downstairs to his waiting breakfast, Patton orders Meeks to assemble a hunting party. There are fields a hundred miles south in Mannheim, where the pheasant hunting is very good, and Patton has spent an occasional Sunday there since taking command of the Fifteenth.

Meeks knows exactly what to do.

*   *   *

“Get the limousine ready,” Meeks orders. “The General and General Gay are going hunting.”

As the intercom once again goes silent, PFC Horace Woodring quickly rises from bed and obeys the order. The handsome, lantern-jawed Kentucky native is Patton’s new driver. He likes the job so much that he has just enlisted for an additional year so that he can continue to drive the general. The nineteen-year-old son of a dairy farmer, Woodring has always had a passion for speed. He grew up racing stock cars and flying stunt planes. But if not for the fact that he suffered frostbite and was deemed incapable of remaining in the infantry, he wouldn’t have been assigned to the motor pool. Twice the crime of having relationships with local German women has seen him busted down from sergeant to private, but Patton has taken a shine to his new young driver.

“Woodring is the fastest,” Patton marvels of the man he calls Woody. After three years of the overly cautious John Mims at the wheel, Patton revels in Woodring’s daredevil driving. “He’s better than a Piper Cub to get you there ahead of time,” says the general.

Today will be Woodring’s last day as Patton’s military driver. However, Patton has hinted that he would like to hire him as his personal chauffeur after they both leave the service.

The summons to go hunting is unexpected. As with most Saturday nights, Woodring was out on the town carousing the evening before. But he knew better than to overdo it, just in case the general should call. Now is such a moment. Woodring will be driving Patton and his longtime chief of staff, Gen. Hap Gay.

Woodring pulls on his uniform, making sure to dress warmly for a day outside. Patton’s house is across the street from where his household staff sleeps. The “limousine” is parked on the street, due to lack of garage space. It is a dull green 1938 Cadillac Model 75, one of four cars Patton makes use of since assuming command of the Fifteenth. The vehicle’s interior is spacious, with six feet of legroom between the backseat and the window partition separating the driver’s compartment from the back. Woodring normally spends hours making sure that all Patton’s vehicles are spotless inside and out, knowing that despite their somewhat informal relationship Patton will have no trouble chewing him out if the car is the slightest bit unkempt.

The morning is exceptionally cold. Woodring waits ninety minutes before Patton steps outside with Gay; their breaths are visible in the frigid morning air. Both men are dressed in thick military coats and gloves. Heavy boots add two inches to Patton’s six-foot-two-inch height, making the general even more imposing than usual. With nothing else to do these past two months, he has spent the time traveling throughout Europe, riding and hunting whenever he could. Patton turned sixty just four weeks ago, and celebrated with a lavish party thrown by his staff at Bad Nauheim’s Grand Hotel.

Never at a loss for words, even at this early hour, Patton walks to the sedan and jokes with Woodring, who holds the door open while the two men take their seats in the back. A jeep driven by another of Patton’s aides, Sgt. Joe Scruce, pulls into line behind them. The rifles for today’s hunt are loaded in Scruce’s car, along with a hunting dog.

Patton gives Woodring directions to the hunting ground but first orders the driver to go to the ruins of a first-century Roman fort near Saalburg. Shortly before 9:00 a.m. the caravan pulls out, leaving behind the forest-lined road.

Few local Germans possess a vehicle, so there is very little traffic on the autobahn this morning. This allows Woodring to indulge his penchant for speed. At Bad Homburg, he exits onto a side road that Patton has suggested, then carefully navigates his way up a hill to the site of the ruins.

Woodring is not surprised when Patton insists on getting out of the warm car and exploring the site up close. The general’s boots are not waterproof and are soon soaked as he climbs through the snow and frozen mud. Upon returning to the Cadillac after a half hour, he moves up to the front passenger seat so the car’s heater can warm his sodden feet.

Woodring enjoys defying authority whenever he can. So when the Cadillac comes upon a military checkpoint on the country road known as Route 38, he initially attempts to race through without stopping. The four stars on the car’s license plates should tell the military policemen all they need to know. But suddenly an MP stops Patton’s vehicle. “The guy must be crazy,” Woodring mumbles as he gets out of the Cadillac.

But Patton is only a few steps behind him. Rather than punish the sentry, who has drawn the unfortunate job of manning this lonely post on a frozen Sunday morning, Patton pats him warmly on the back. “You are a good soldier, son. I’ll see to it that your CO is told what a fine MP you make.”

On his way back to the warmth of the front seat, Patton makes a decision that will change everything. He spies the hunting dog in the other car. “The poor thing is going to freeze to death in your goddam truck,” he yells to Sergeant Scruce, referring to the hunting dog.

“Woody,” Patton orders his driver, “go and bring that dog inside the car. He looks cold.”

With the hunting dog safely in the front seat, Patton returns to his perch in the back.

The journey, now in its third hour, continues. Patton is in no hurry to go hunting, and relaxes as Woodring is forced to stop for a freight train. The Cadillac is at the back of a long line of U.S. military vehicles.